


Two For Flinching

by vachtar



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Light Masochism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexy Use of Eldritch Powers, Trans Jonathan Sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vachtar/pseuds/vachtar
Summary: Jon has a rather specific reaction to the feelings caused by trying to Know things he can't. Martin indulges him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 332





	Two For Flinching

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to MAG164 and had some...thoughts about Jon’s general reaction to his powers this season, and Martin’s reactions to Jon’s powers, and Jon and pain, and Martin’s caretaking thing, and I spat this out two weeks later. Trans Jon, no specific words used for his genitals though.

"Go on, ask me."

Martin blows out a breath and fights back the urge to adjust his glasses. Stupid nervous habit he thought he'd weaned himself off of, but put Jon in front of him, looking at him like that, apparently it comes back with a vengeance.

"I just - are you _sure_ it's okay?"

"Martin." Funny, a couple years ago that dry edge of Jon's voice had hurt. Now it's just a thin veneer overlaying fond exasperation. "I'm telling you it's alright. I know - I Know - you want to. I want it too."

"I just - you'll tell me, if it's too much? Or if I go too far?" 

"Yes, fine, you won't but fine." Martin very deliberately does not let himself pick up the tail of that circular argument. They wore it out in the cottage, an endless cycle of 'you don't deserve this' 'I have to' that never got them anywhere. They're both trying to be better, or as good as they can be in this brave new world. So, fine. Trusting Jon to know his limits. He can do that.

He inhales and then pauses again, awkward this time. It feels like he's supposed to be doing something more dramatically appropriate here. Should he be putting on a voice? Doing something with his face? Jon sighs, long-suffering, and tangles their fingers together.

"Martin. If you don't want to, we don't have to." He squeezes Martin's hand, the rough keratin from his scar familiar and oddly comforting. Martin should probably be more concerned about just how blasé he's gotten about how weird everything is these past few years, but it's hard to be bothered by that in the current circumstance.

"It's not that, you know it's not that. It's just. Me? I don't think I'll be very good at it for you."

"Martin." Jon tugs their hands up to press his mouth to Martin's knuckles in a ghost of a kiss. "I think you'll do an excellent job. And even if you don't, it's not like we haven't, ah, managed this far. We can just go back to what we've been doing."

"You mean handjobs in the sleeping bags?" It's worth it just for the way Jon flushes. Martin's not entirely sure how to reconcile the Jon who acts all proper and repressed about sex when they're talking about it with the Jon who bit a perfectly visible dental imprint into his shoulder and panted all the filth he was pulling directly from his mind into Martin's ear the first time they fucked, but he figures that’s not actually much of a problem to worry about when both versions make his stomach do somersaults, so.

"Yes, that. Are you ready?" There's an impatient, needy whine in his voice now, and he squirms a little from his seat in their pile of bedding.

"Yeah, um, think so. Just, where do you want me to start?" 

"Anywhere?" Okay, Jon's halfway to begging now and that's entirely unfair. "Ah, why don't you just - something simple, so we can get the hang of it."

"Sure, okay. Um. What am I thinking about doing to you right now?"

Just like they'd discussed, he drags the last vestiges of the Lonely around himself when he says it. Suddenly the tent feels larger, such that he's no longer sitting as closely to Jon. The connection of their hands feels tenuous.

Jon bites his lip to concentrate, lets his eyes slip shut. "You're - nnh - you're, oh you're thinking about taking my shirt off." He shudders a little and then slides one eye open just a tiny slit to look at Martin. "You can go harder than that, we don't need to start off _that_ easy." Petulant, like always, and a wave of fondness washes over Martin, clawing fingers that hook into his Lonely cloak and trying to draw it off of him. He pushes back, lets himself sink a little farther into it.

"Fine. What am I thinking about doing now?"

The intensity of Jon's eyes on him is an almost physical sensation. He suddenly wants to babble it all out, confess every filthy thought he's ever had, and Jon hasn't even said anything, just looked at him. He lets the fog encroach on the edges of his vision and relishes the whimpery groan Jon lets out. Jon’s eyes slide closed and take most of the compulsive pressure with them but there's still that seeking thread, trying to catch and unravel something from Martin.

"I - oh, I - " Jon's normally so verbose. It's lovely to see him like this, biting at his lower lip in concentration and pleasure. His shoulders are tense and his breathing is ragged, and Martin feels his dick starting to swell in his trousers.

"Go on, tell me if you can," he goads. Jon gasps, his bruised lip tugging free of his teeth, and clutches at the blankets. A moment later his eyes snap open, triumphant.

"You're thinking about touching me, my chest. My nipples." He sounds extremely pleased with himself and eager for more, even as he winces a little and shifts his weight back and forth.

"Mmhm.” Martin takes a second to plot his next move, before it crystallizes in his mind. “And now?”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow together and he bites at the inside of his cheek, trying to push through the pain and pull out the answer. He wants it so badly, the same kind of focus and intensity as when he’s chasing a mystery, and having that directed at him is kind of a lot. Martin can feel the Lonely instinctively tugging him back, blurring things out for him, and it’s tempting to let it but Jon in front of him, squirming and panting and boring a hole in Martin’s face with his eyes, is even more tempting. He bats it back and feels a wave of arousal slam over him instead, and Jon slips through.

“Now you’re thinking about licking them.” God, he should probably be used to this by now, Jon just _saying_ these things, but it’s like someone yanking a lever on his libido, every time. He grinds the heel of his free hand against his dick, just to relieve a little of the pressure, and drags the pieces of his scattered composure back together.

“And now?” he asks again. Jon reaches for it and then whines in the back of his throat, clawing up against the foggy edges of Martin. He’s not pushing anywhere near as hard as he can, but he’s still - hungry. When his eyes meet Martin’s they’re foggy too.

“Biting. Nibbling.”

“Um. Yeah.” Somehow hearing it aloud is more mortifying than just picturing it in his head, but he’s certainly not going to complain. He fumbles the button on his trousers open and shoves the zipper down as he considers where to go next. Jon seems content to pant for a second, shaking his head to clear it a little. He’s clenching his thighs together in an unsteady rhythm and his other hand is tangled in the blanket he’s sitting on.

The next thing, Martin doesn’t even need to tell him to reach for. Jon just presses on his own, this heavy driving force wrenching it out of Martin and leaving them both gasping. “My - my neck. Biting, too.” He tilts his head, angles his throat towards Martin.

“And? Try and use a full sentence this time.” Jon groans, whimpers, rocks forward. 

“You’re thinking about touching me. On my stomach, and my arse. And your fingers are - are inside me, oh.” Breathless, gasping. Martin wraps his hand around his dick and feels it throb. He’d been so focused on Jon he nearly forgot to touch himself. He strokes it up gently - not enough to really get anywhere, which is fine, he doesn't want to come yet, not until he's talked Jon into an orgasm at the least.

"What am I thinking about doing with those fingers?" 

The noise Jon makes is a gutted whimper and he jerks forward, nearly topples over. His mouth drops open on a whine. “Fucking me with them. Fuck, Martin.” Jon’s hips squirm. He’s this close and Martin hasn’t even touched him, has really done nothing but sit here and fantasize about him.

“How many?”

“Tw - two, no, three, three fingers.” He’s struggling to get the words out, pain and pleasure splintering across his face. Martin drags his thumb over the wet head of his dick to ground himself and shudders himself. Jon squeezes their joined hands. “Will you touch me?”

He wants so badly to give in, to lie over Jon and make him come with his hands and his tongue and feel him fall apart, but that’s not what they’re doing right now. Martin clears his throat and shakes his head. “Not yet. What am I thinking now?”

Jon makes a noise like a frantic animal and his brows furrow together. “You’re thinking about - kissing me. Just kissing me, not touching me anywhere else, Martin, _please_ \- ” he chokes. Martin’s hand clenches on his dick and he has to force himself to loosen his grip. Not yet, not until Jon is done. 

“You’re doing so good,” he tells him, tugging their hands up to kiss Jon’s knuckles in a mirror of the way Jon had earlier. Jon’s shoulders relax a little and he smiles at Martin, fuzzy and disoriented but still exceedingly sharp. 

“Now you’re just thinking I’m handsome. You have terrible taste in men.”

“Yes, well.” Martin snorts, digs his thumb into the bones on the back of Jon’s hand for that, and gets a pleased little whimper in response. “I make up for it with my other virtues.”

“Of which you have many.” Okay, they’re getting distracted, and Jon’s getting entirely too sappy. The compliments make Martin uncomfortable in the un-sexy way, and Jon seems to take that as a personal challenge, but - not what they’re here for. Martin exhales and lets the Lonely swim back into his lungs, just enough to make him feel a degree or two colder.

“What am I thinking about now?” God, he should’ve come up with more ways to ask that question when they first discussed this, he sounds like a skipping record. Jon lets out a shaking sigh and doesn’t seem to mind at all, just settles back a little further and concentrates for a few long seconds.

“You’re thinking about me touching myself, now. Do you want me to?”

Martin had honestly just been leaning into the more shameful side of the few fantasies he’d allotted himself during the past year - _what’s more Lonely than a sad wank where you can’t even imagine yourself with the person you’re thinking of?_ \- but of course Jon would pick the most voyeuristic possible interpretation and run with it. His dick pulses in his hand and he tugs at it loosely, enjoying the warm slide of skin on skin a moment, before reluctantly pulling his hand out of his trousers. Not yet.

“Um, yeah, that sounds - do that, yeah.” Jon obeys immediately, pops the button open on his trousers and wriggles them open enough to get his free hand down his boxers. He sighs and shudders when he manages to get his hand on himself, and Martin feels a low moan work its way out of his own throat.

“Describe what you’re doing to me?” he asks, trying to keep the note of pleading out of his voice. Jon gives him an arch look, somewhat hampered by the fact that Martin can see his hand moving faster under his trousers and his thighs falling further open nearly eagerly.

“That’s not a challenge.”

“Are you pouting right now? You are, aren’t you, you ridiculous man.” He shakes his head, impossibly fond, and scoots closer so their shoulders are almost brushing and he can see every little shuddery movement Jon makes, the sweat beading on his temples and the impression of teeth marks still on his lower lip. “Alright, fine, back on track. What am I thinking now?”

Jon reaches for it and Martin slides back. When he was younger there’d been an older boy at school who took a liking to him, in the sense that he liked bullying him, and once after class he’d snatched Martin’s ratty backpack and held it over his head, taunting Martin for being unable to grab it back. He lets the memory color his thoughts, just a touch, the sensation of being alone in a crowd as the other children snickered and gawked, and holds the information Jon wants at a distance.

His efforts are rewarded by Jon crying out, doubling over and shoving his hand harder against himself. He clenches his fingers around Martin’s and whines in the back of his throat, muffles the noises against his own knee. Martin is transfixed by the tensing play of the muscles on his back, writhing so hard he can see them move even through Jon’s shirt, and then he suddenly slumps.

“You have your whole hand in me,” he chokes out, and Martin has to swallow hard or he’ll start actually drooling and make a fool of himself. “You’ve - oh god, you’re thinking about fucking me with it.” Jon’s voice is hoarse, distant, he’s latched onto the train of Martin’s thoughts and he’s not giving it up at this point. “Can we do that? For real, I mean?”

“Not - not _now_ but - someday, yeah? If you want?” The pleading rasp in Jon’s voice is the same as the one in his own and his dick pulses, smearing pre-come all over the inside of his boxers. Jon’s head lolls to the side and he meets Martin’s eyes, glassy and overwhelmed and overwhelming.

“Please,” he begs, crackling with static, and Martin can’t reasonably be expected to hold out any more. He practically throws himself at Jon, climbs into his lap and gets his free hand down his trousers and into the slick mess Jon’s made of himself, and Jon’s moaning - they’re both moaning so much - and squeezing their still-joined hands and Jon falls over the edge.

He comes down in increments, loosening his death-grip on Martin’s hand, letting his head slump forward until he can bury his face in the soft cotton of Martin’s shirt. His breath is hot and trembling still, and Martin can feel him pressing damp kisses into his shoulder. He slides his hand out of Jon’s trousers and cradles his back, breathing in the sweaty scent of his hair.

After a moment Jon pulls away so he can meet Martin’s eyes again, and his gaze sharpens. “You didn’t come.”

“Not yet. I, ah, wanted to do you first.” Jon makes a strangled noise and surges up to kiss him sloppy. He drags languorous teeth over Martin’s lip and pulls his hands free to press on his stomach until Martin gets the hint and shifts his weight backwards and off of Jon’s lap.

Jon goes with him, shifting his knees awkwardly until he can swap their places and straddle Martin’s thighs, kissing him all the while. He grinds his hips down, and the sense memory of Jon riding him, feverish and clutching and significantly less clothed, is entirely too much for Martin’s dick to handle. 

He’d be embarrassed by how quickly he comes but Jon is smiling against his mouth, tugging gently at his hair and swallowing all of Martin’s needy groans with an eagerness.

Finally Jon relents in his quest to map each of Martin’s molars with his tongue and sits back, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth like smearing a little saliva around will do anything to fix how absolutely disheveled he is. Martin pushes his glasses up his head, too fogged up to be of any use now.

“Well.”

“Well indeed.” Jon’s voice is ragged and still unbearably smug and Martin should be used to these waves of adoration crashing over him by now, really.

“Was that what you were looking for?” Jon rolls his eyes.

“No, Martin, that was terrible. Absolutely awful. I’m thinking of pursuing monastic life now so I never have to do anything like that again.”

“Prat.” Jon’s still got one hand tangled in Martin’s hair and he brushes the thumb over the shell of his ear, softening.

“It was perfect. Thank you. I know it was a lot to ask.”

“I was glad to do it.”

Jon tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. What Jon, of all people, could be struggling to grasp, Martin has no idea. “I love you,” he decides on, and that's definitely never getting old. "And my head hurts." He pinches the bridge of his nose, clambers off of Martin's lap so he can bend forward and grind the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

Martin lays a hand over the nape of Jon's neck and feels him relax with the touch. He hums tunelessly, just to plaster something over the roar of fear lurking outside the tent. They'll need to get moving soon, he can feel that, but they can stay here a little longer, Jon warm and loose under his hand.


End file.
